Omake!
by Serenswyrd
Summary: 2012 USUK Secret Santa omake for theladyjazz. England gets drunk, L/UST without plot, horrible abuse of Canada as a plot device. (I'm sorry, I'm sorry!)
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Omake!

**Rating**: M-ish

**Summary**: England gets blitzed in a different way.

**Warning:** Extremely suspect / sketchy use of Canada as a plot device (I'm so sorry Mattie) Is there such a thing as USTwP?

**Note:** Omake for USUK Secret Santa 2012.

Special thanks to Liete for her beta help!

**-x-**

* * *

**-x-**

England glared blearily at his phone, poking at the screen as names blurred and wobbled beneath his fingers. Finally he gave a curse and brought up his speed dial, swiping irritably at the list. The world lurched a bit as he put the phone to his ear, and he scrabbled at the stool beside him, clutching it to stay upright.

"Hello!" A bright voice answered.

"Matthewwww," he blew into the receiver. "Matthew, I—" he announced proudly, "am _pissed_."

"Is this… hold on, England, is that you?"

He ignored the question. "Matthew, I am utterly pissed and it's cold outside," he whined. "Bloody _fucking_ cold. Be a good lad and come get me."

There was a quick amused snort on the other side of the line, followed by a hushed conversation he couldn't follow. _Ah. The boy had company. _England scowled at the floor. _He'd been hoping… hell, never mind what he'd been hoping. It had been a long night, and he was so many sails to the wind, he was practically a bloody barque._ He giggled. _A bloody brilliant barque. A bloody brilliant barque so full of rum that his insides had gone all warm and achy and he just… he wanted…. _"Matthewwww," he cooed into the phone.

"Yes! Yes. Sorry, I'm here. Where are you now?"

"I am—" England swung around heavily, hunting for a tavern sign. "At a place called… Worthington." He paused, squinting while his eyes slipped in and out of focus. "Worthington… White Shield."

An impatient sigh. "That would be the bar menu. Look, is there someone else you can put on the line?"

England glared at the phone, affronted. He covered the bottom of it with one hand and draped himself over the bar rail. "Where am I?" he hissed at the bartender in a theatrical whisper.

The man raised an eyebrow. "The Boar and the Ox, sir."

England uncovered the receiver. "I'm at the Boar and the Ox," he repeated triumphantly.

Matthew grunted. "All right. I have to see a guest out, but I'm on my way, ok? I'm coming to get you. Stay there. Don't move."

"Thank youuuu," England sang brightly. "Thank youuuuuu."

'Yeah, yeah, okay." The boy laughed, and there was a fondness in it that washed over England in a thrill, warming him even further. "You can thank me later, all right?"

"I will," he promised. Heat began to pool and curl low in his stomach. "Perhaps a game?" he said hopefully.

"Um." There was a quick beat. "Yeah. Okay, sure. Just stay put- that's the important thing. I'll be right there." The line cut out.

England squinted down at the phone in his hand, poking at the screen until the dial tone stopped, and then pocketing it with a warm smile. _Such a good lad. _He motioned to the bartender for one more pint, and leaned back to wait. _ The night was looking up again. _


	2. Chapter 2

He'd barely had time to nurse a few sips when Matthew stepped into the pub. The boy was bundled for the weather, knit cap tucked low over his ears with a matching scarf around his neck. He stamped the snow off his boots, quickly stripping off his heavy gloves and stuffing them into a pocket. What warmed England to his toes, however, was that he'd topped off the outfit with a very familiar-looking bomber jacket.

"Oi! Matthew!" England waved, dropping off his stool with a quick, boneless stagger. Confusion flickered across the boy's face for a moment, but then he caught England's eye and waved back, making his way over in a few quick strides and catching him by the arm before the pub could give another treacherous tilt. England held on tightly as the room spun, breathing in the scent of sun-warmed leather as he leaned into boy's shoulder. A familiar warm ache spread through his chest and began to curl down his spine.

Once the room had settled down a bit, he pulled back to give the other nation a brilliant smile. He stabbed a finger at the jacket. "This. I like this."

Matthew grinned in amusement, eyebrows raised. "Glad to hear it."

"Such a good boy," England murmured, stroking his fingers over the leather. The younger nation watched him for a moment, still grinning, then gave a bright laugh and threw an arm around his shoulders.

"Right. Come on. Taxi's waiting."

England blinked at that, pulling out of his grasp warily. "Taxi?" he repeated. "What about your car?"

Matthew gave a quick roll of his eyes as he shook his head. "Not available at the moment, ok? Come on, England. The ride's on me."

England frowned. He'd been looking forward to a bit more privacy than a taxi would afford, but as the younger nation wrapped a warm, strong arm around his waist, he grudgingly supposed he could bear the wait.

England glowered as they stepped outside, frigid air hitting him like a brisk slap. The intensity of the cold was threatening to strip the thick, comfortable haze he'd worked so hard to build, and he tugged Matthew impatiently toward the waiting cab, scrambling into the back seat as quickly as he could. The other nation tumbled in after him, calling the destination to their driver. Safe again in the car's cocoon of warmth, England felt himself relax back into the deliciously dizzy, liquid feeling. He looked over at Matthew to find him looking back, still grinning as if he'd heard the best joke ever.

"You're in a good mood."

The grin widened, and then the boy laughed. "I guess I am."

England let that laugh curl around him. It felt almost like a physical touch, and he shivered, hazarding a glance at the cab driver. Satisfied they were being ignored, England returned his grin and leaned over to tug playfully at the knit scarf. "It's warm in here. You should take that off."

Matthew gave a half-shrug of agreement, and started to unwrap it from his neck.

"Here, let me…" England murmured. He tugged the ends of the scarf out of the boy's hands, quickly unlooping it until the knit ran straight between his hands, the middle loose behind the boy's neck. He shifted into a half-crouch then, letting other nation see the growing heat in his eyes. A distant, floating part of his mind noted that Matthew wasn't smiling anymore. He blinked at England with eyes that were slightly too wide, his mouth open just enough to show a glint of teeth, the smallest sliver of a pink tongue. England watched it glisten for a moment, feeling oddly hypnotized as it worked soundlessly, and then smoothly pulled at the ends of the scarf to capture it with his own.

Matthew made a short sound that was quickly swallowed by the heat of the older nation's mouth. England pulled tighter on the scarf, running his tongue in sweeping strokes along the boy's teeth, curling and twisting as it met the other's, lips sliding slick and wet as he released a torrent of pent up desire into the other nation. When his vision finally began to swim from lack of air, he pulled back with a gasp.

Matthew's eyes were unfocused and slightly glazed, his breath ragged. He looked utterly dazed, and England felt a triumphant smile quirk at the corner of his lips. Silently congratulating himself on a job well done, he leaned in again, claiming the boy's mouth more gently this time, almost apologetically, encouraging him with achingly light pressure and quick, wet flicks of tongue along his bottom lip. After what seemed like an eternity, the younger nation finally began to respond, his hands jerkily coming to rest at England's waist. England bit back an impatient groan. There were limits to what he could ask, even under these circumstances— not the least of which was that the boy shed his shy, gentle nature— but it could make pretending so hard_._ England closed his eyes, forcing himself to focus on the heat of Matthew's mouth, the slick, warm glide of his lips. He let the scarf drop, his hands sliding around to fist themselves in the jacket, humming in delight at the soft touch of the leather. _Alfred_. A thick tendril of heat licked up his spine. He deepened the kiss in a dizzy surge and the boy groaned softly, a beautiful, broken sound that went straight to England's hardening cock. He quickly freed a hand and let it slide up the younger nation's neck, his fingers tingling with the urge to thread themselves through golden hair.

He felt the boy go tense underneath him, and as soon as his hand touched the edge of the cap, Matthew covered it firmly with his own. England's eyes fluttered open. He grunted a protest, pulling back to give him a questioning look. Matthew's eyes darted aside, but he didn't release his grip. Finally he shook his head. "Don't. It… it'll be a mess if I take it off. Leave it."

England scowled and gave an insistent push, but the boy's hand was like iron and his own impatience was quickly winning out. Finally he tugged his hand free, feeling the tension ease from Matthew's body as he curled it back into his jacket. _Such ridiculous vanity had to be Francis' doing_, he decided sulkily_. _He held himself up for another moment, struggling to focus on the boy's face. _Still, it was probably for the best. With the hat on, it really could be his twin looking back._ England let out a slow breath at that, his body tingling with new warmth under the younger nation's hands.

Matthew had begun to squirm under England's bleary scrutiny, a deep flush rising in his cheeks as seconds passed. _Pretty_, England thought, the word floating to him on a thick fog. _He was so pretty. _ His earlier train of thought forgotten, he distantly considered leaning in to taste the heated skin, wondered how pink would compare to gold. The boy chewed on his lower lip, gaze flickering uneasily as it searched England's eyes then darted down to his lips and back. Finally, he squared his shoulders.

England blinked in surprise, startled from his drifting thoughts as Matthew reached out to touch him. The boy's hand stroked the side of his face, coming to rest against the older nation's cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of the bone beneath. _Ah._ England leaned into the touch as the world spun around him, eyes falling half-closed. He realized then that he was moving: Matthew's hand gently drawing him closer until his features blurred completely. He felt warmth against his lips, and his eyes fluttered shut.

The kiss started sweet. Distantly, he felt the boy's hands leave his sides— there was a quick tug as his shirt was untucked, and they were back, warm and rough against his bare skin. _Fuck, that felt wonderful._ England hummed his appreciation into the kiss as they traced the curve of his ribs, sliding as far up his chest as the buttoned shirt would allow and around to his back in a slow, warm circle. Matthew's hands stroked their way down to his hips then, fingers sliding just beneath his waistband with in achingly slow, deliberate motion before gliding back up his sides. England must have made some kind of noise at that, because the boy's hands flexed in response, gripping him more tightly. _Oh, this was better. So much better._ He pressed back with a moan and Matthew reacted instantly, his mouth turning even more hungry and insistent. He broke away from England to taste the skin below his ear, his jaw, his neck, before capturing his mouth again. England clenched his hands in the warm leather and moaned into his mouth, letting the firm, greedy strokes of the boy's tongue sweep him fully into the delusion. He gasped as they broke apart again, his breath starting to come quick and heavy as Matthew leaned in to bathe the hollow at the base of his neck with his tongue. A sliding warmth crept along his collarbone, sending shocks directly to his hips. "Ah…" he hissed, grinding his length into the boy's thigh to relieve some of the building pressure. "_Fuck_. _Alfred_…"

The hands on his back froze.

England clenched his teeth around a curse, quickly shifting so that his hips were no longer in direct contact. _Too close to the line_. He closed his eyes and waited, taking the opportunity to catch his breath. When the hands still wouldn't move, he made an impatient noise and pulled back, frowning when he was finally able to focus on the shock on Matthew's face. He blinked, confused, and then glowered in embarrassment, shoving at the boy's chest irritably. He had no right to look at him like that. They'd settled how this game was to be played long ago, knew exactly how far it could take them. A combination of hurt and liquor started to make his eyes sting. "I wasn't going to do anything," he slurred bitterly. "You know that. I wasn't going to."

The boy was utterly silent and still. But then, England considered fuzzily, he hadn't pulled away either. After another moment, he leaned in to try again. He felt the other nation's hands briefly flinch to life as England tried to reclaim his lips.

In a sudden burst of movement, Matthew squirmed out of reach, pressing himself into the corner of the cab.

"_Maple_," he cursed softly.

England scowled. The stinging feeling behind his eyes began to burn hot. _ It was all going wrong. Why was it going wrong?_ He made a petulant noise and fell against Matthew's chest, his fingers picking sulkily at the leather jacket. _Why go to all this trouble and then decide not to play?_ He slid a hand higher to stroke the embroidered patch above his heart. _ The boy was being ridiculous. The whole bloody thing was ridiculous._ He jabbed the star firmly a few times with his finger before leaning back to give what he hoped was a scathing glare. He couldn't be certain it was successful, judging from the way the lines of the cab window swam and flexed behind him, but Matthew looked away quickly. England noted his ears were a bright, burning red where they peeked out from under his cap.

England sighed.

_Bloody fucking hell_.

"All right." He patted clumsily at one of the hands guarding the boy's lap. "It's ok. Some other time."

Matthew flinched at that, the line of his shoulders drawing tighter. An uncomfortable silence fell as he stared mutely out the window. England watched the boy's face, trying to read something useful in the flickering expressions that passed over it in quick succession. Finally, the kaleidoscope settled and Matthew's lips firmed. He turned, his eyes suddenly dark and intense, one hand sliding along the back of England's neck to tangle in his hair. Before England could ask what the hell he was playing at now, his open mouth was covered in a fierce, bruising kiss— the younger nation's tongue claiming his, the pressure against his lips just short of painful. Trapped between the boy's demanding mouth and the hand at the back of his head, England could do little but react, the ebbing heat in his groin instantly rekindled. Noting distantly that his earlier indiscretion seemed to have been forgiven, England let blinding warmth surge through him again as their tongues coiled and twisted. Suddenly Matthew shifted, deliberately flexing his hips to grind against England's aching length. The friction tore a gasping, strangled moan from his throat.

Matthew released his mouth then, bending closer until his lips were at his ear.

"Say it," he murmured.

England's world seemed to spin violently at the words, each syllable wet and obscene in its proximity. His heartbeat thundered in his head. As if he could hear it too, Matthew pressed his mouth, hot and needy, over England's frantic pulse, nipping and then sucking firmly. England felt the sensation shoot directly to his cock, which flexed, straining, in response. "Ah—" he let out a broken groan, twisting to grant him better access. "_Alfred."_

The boy hissed a sharp breath through his teeth. He pulled away to fix the older nation with a searing look, his expression full of _something_ that his foggy brain couldn't place. A shudder ran the length of his body as he brushed the pad of his thumb across England's lips, then leaned in again.

"If I asked," he said softly, his voice low and strangely thick, "would you fuck me?"

England heard his own breath catch in a jagged gasp. Dual shocks of need and ice cold fear shot down his spine, meeting and clashing in an impossibly tight ache. This was well beyond the boundaries of the game. Matthew drew himself up until he could meet England's gaze again, eyes demanding an answer.

England stared back for a long moment, his own eyes as wide as Matthew's had been only minutes before. Finally he shook his head, mute.

"I..." he started, his mind swimming with more than drink. "_No_." He searched the other nation's face, trying desperately to focus as the boy's features blurred and slid. He'd dreaded this moment, suspecting, in the clarity of rueful, hungover mornings, that it was just a matter of time. He had been so certain the transgression would be his, though— drunk and desperate, caught up in the delusion— had always assumed that Matthew indulged him out of an odd, compassionate pity, almost a duty to his former caretaker.

But he'd never asked. No, he'd never asked.

Because, he thought harshly, he hadn't wanted to know.

"I can't." He stared back at the boy, helpless. "You know I can't."

Matthew's face remained utterly impassive. He nodded, gently unthreading his fingers from England's hair and sliding his hand from his neck as he leaned back into his own seat. "All right," he said softly. "Let's just focus on getting you home, then."

England watched the boy turn away and pulled himself up numbly, training his stinging eyes at a random point outside the cab window. The delicious heat was rapidly bleeding out of him, leaving a dull, slightly queasy ache in its place. He blinked hard against the blur in his eyes and wondered, distantly, if he was going to be sick. _Bollocks. _ Somehow, in the span of one night, he'd managed to cock it up completely. This fragile thing they'd built— whatever it was— would never fit back together quite the same. He felt the beginning of a headache pulsing at his temples, and pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window.

"Hey," Matthew said softly.

England looked back. The boy held out a tentative hand, motioning for his own. The gesture struck him as darkly comedic, given how intimately they'd been touching only moments before. Something low in his gut gave a sick lurch at that, but he relented, slipping his hand alongside Matthew's. The boy gave it a gentle squeeze.

"It'll be okay. I mean, _we_…" he corrected himself, pinking slightly. "We can be okay. The two of us."

England nodded, mute, his sight blurring again. Everything tonight felt too raw, his reactions too strong— the haze he'd meant to use as a barrier intensifying everything. _Home. _He wanted to be home and the night to be over. Silently, he turned back to the window to wait for just that, doing his best to ignore the ache in his throat and the warmth of the hand in his own.

Finally, they pulled onto King Charles Street. Matthew leapt out quickly to make good on his promise to cover the fare, leaving England to fumble numbly with his door. On his third attempt, it gave way abruptly and the boy was there, leaning in to pull him to his feet. England stiffened reflexively at his touch, and Matthew flashed him a lopsided, apologetic smile.

"Come on, up you go," he soothed. He lifted the older nation easily, sliding a quick arm around his waist to keep him upright while he closed the cab door behind them. Realizing his only options were to cling to the boy beside him or totter sideways into the snow, England relented, burying himself in the warmth of Matthew's side. He tried not to breathe in, not to think about the feel of leather on his cheek or the hand at his hip.

_Over and done_, he promised himself. _You just have to make it inside, old boy._

The cab pulled away, England realizing with a sharp flash of panic that Matthew had not asked it to wait. They were alone. He willed himself toward the door, putting far more attention on ignoring the boy at his side than where he was putting his feet. After a few moments of disastrous, stumbling progress, Matthew sighed and swept his legs out from under him, cradling them in his other arm.

Unable to let this indignity pass, England finally glared up at him. "Put me down." The boy simply returned his look with a cheeky grin, making sure his hold was secure before bounding up the steps in a rush that stole England's breath.

"Keys?" he asked.

England shook his head, the world tilting horribly from the sudden motion. "This is fine," he gasped. "I'll be fine from here." He struggled to unhook his legs from the boy's grasp.

Matthew frowned, his grip tightening. He tilted his head back toward the street. "Not if that was any indication," he countered. He paused, and his voice softened. "I won't stay, England. Promise. I just want to be sure you're settled."

There was a stubborn, penitent warmth in the boy's tone that made England's eyes start to prickle again. He twisted awkwardly, fishing keys from his pocket, and unlocked the door to let them both inside. Matthew stepped into the entryway and immediately came to a stop, uncertain where he was meant to go.

"Ah." The boy's voice was oddly hesitant. "Upstairs, then?"

England nodded. "I just… I need to sleep."

Matthew acknowledged that with a quick nod of his own, expression still faintly anxious. England tried to focus on the oddness in it, there was something not quite- …_ah. _His breath left him again in a quick rush. _That must be it_. The boy's eyes really could pass for blue in this light. He closed his eyes against the thought, head spinning as he felt Matthew climb the stairs, heard him open what must have been the first door on the landing, one of several guest rooms.

"Oh," the boy started. "I, uh…"

"S'fine," England mumbled, his head still swimming. "Bed. Bed is fine." Matthew let out a quick breath that could have been relief. He lowered England to his feet carefully and swept back the covers, giving them a small hopeful flourish.

England shrugged out of his coat and let himself fall into the waiting sheets, curling the comforter tightly around him. "Bed," he murmured again, the dizzy spin of his mind slipping seamlessly into the deep pull of sleep. Matthew gave a soft laugh. There was a rustle and a creak of bedsprings, and England felt the mattress behind him give under the boy's weight as he sat.

"You won't remember any of this in the morning, will you," he asked softly.

England groaned, a miserable wordless reply. He couldn't be sure how much he'd had to drink, but his time at the pub was already hazy and insubstantial. Part of him prayed guiltily that he wouldn't. _But Matthew was sober,_ he reminded himself fiercely. _He always was_. Even if England didn't remember, the boy would. He had to, then— _had to_, if he was going to fix this. England clung desperately to the thought, forced it to hold him up above the swirling darkness. He couldn't let himself sleep yet.

There was another soft rustle as Matthew turned. England tried to ease his breathing slow and deep, even as his heart began to hammer in his chest. He was unprepared for the touch of the boy's hand on his head, barely holding back an instinctive flinch. It rested for a moment, then began to move in gentle strokes, brushing hair from his forehead and carding through the strands, fingertips rubbing soothing circles against his scalp. It was a mirror, he realized with a horrible ache, of their bedtime ritual when the boys were young.

Matthew began to hum, tuneless and soft, and England focused everything he had on controlling his breath, keeping it flowing steadily in and out, holding in a sound that felt like it was clawing desperately up his throat. Minutes passed. Finally, seeming satisfied that the older nation was truly asleep, the hand stilled and Matthew eased himself to his feet. There was the faintest hiss of fabric, and England was struck by a sudden intense gratitude that he'd curled to face the wall. He wasn't certain he could resist the urge to crack an eye open to read the boy's face, even as he knew— with absolute certainty— that he did not want to see it. Matthew bent over him, leaning close until England could feel the barest hint of warm breath at his ear.

_"_Arthur?"

_In and out_, England ordered himself fiercely. _Slowly._

He heard the boy swallow.

"I love you." Matthew whispered.

Tears sprang, stinging and hot behind England's closed lids.

No, he would not be forgiven. He couldn't be. He felt a small sound squeeze past the stranglehold in his throat and tried to shape it into something that could pass as a sleepy whine, praying that it didn't sound as broken and raw outside his own head. Matthew shifted quickly as England rolled to nuzzle deeper into his pillow, burying his face in it, and the room fell silent. After a few moments, he realized the boy must still be standing there, unmoving. Was he watching him? Looking out the window? Staring at nothing?

Finally there was a sharp, soft exhalation— almost a quiet laugh, and Matthew turned. He listened as footsteps faded and the door eased shut.

England counted, slow and deliberate, to twenty and curled in on himself then, letting the wrenching sob he'd been suppressing shudder through him. He had to remember. Even if it could not be forgiven, he had to try. Dizzy and sick, he reached for a pad of paper beside the bed.


	3. Chapter 3

England woke to find every cell in his body screaming at him to stay still. He groaned softly, wincing as even that grated in his head. _Jesus._ He kept his eyes closed, praying desperately for sleep to drag him back into oblivion. Before it could, a stray thought squirmed its way to the forefront of his mind, followed closely by a vague but strangely urgent unease that prompted him wider awake. _Last night._ He prodded his memory tentatively, rummaging through the few fragments he could summon. _Something about shields. White shields and… Oxen? _He snorted._ Useless. _ He groped for the pad of paper he knew would be on the bedside table, bringing it close to his gritty, blurred eyes.

There, in horrible scrawling handwriting, were the words "Call Matthew. Apologize."

England let the pad fall and closed his eyes again.

_So it had been that kind of night._

He sighed.

Eyes still closed, he eased himself into a sitting position. He ignored the way his pulse had started to thrum in his temples and bent to gather his coat from the floor, fumbling as he fished his cellphone from the front pocket. He held the infernal device in front of him, squinting hard to make out the screen without letting in too much bloody light. _Canada… Canada…_ He poked at the menus with his finger, bringing up his recent call list and scrolling quickly to the end. The page stopped, and he blinked.

He scowled at the thing, flicking insistently to scroll further down. The list gave a bouncing shift, settled again at the bottom of his screen.

He blinked again, rapid and desperate, but the letters refused to resolve into anything else.

**_1:48am. _**

**_America_**.

The phone fell to the floor with a clatter.


End file.
